


Untitled Kidlock Fic

by unamusedpixie



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Age Regression/De-Aging, Also Sherlock has a meltdown, Also there's some cyanide pills, And it's not pretty, And so is Jim, Anthea hates kids, Child Abuse, Child Neglect, I promise, If you're looking for a ship fic, Jimmy is a fire-starter, Kidlock, Sherlock is five years old, Some Sci-Fi Elements, There is actually no shipping in this, WIP, but it's ok, listen, look elsewhere, so please be careful if that triggers you, there are some elements that could arguably be considered
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-03-17
Updated: 2016-06-25
Packaged: 2018-03-18 09:18:47
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 15,962
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3564368
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/unamusedpixie/pseuds/unamusedpixie
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>The small form fell perfectly into the circle of his arms, emitting a small “oomph”.  The light from the streetlamp caught in the blue pools of the child’s eyes, making Greg feel cold.  Despite the full cheeks, the young face promised sharpness would emerge one day.  And the curly black hair.... </i>
</p>
<p>
<i>
Greg swallowed.  “You...you all right, lad?”
</i></p><p>
<i>
“No!” the boy hissed.  “I’ve got to escape!”  The “s” made more of a “th” sound.  Greg nearly dropped him.  Why did the lisp make his insides feel panicky?
</i></p><p>
<i>
“Little late to be escaping, isn’t it?”
</i></p><p>
<i>
“I dunno where I am,” the boy admitted hesitantly.  “I’ve--I’ve got to find my brother.”
</i></p><p>
<i>
Greg was overwhelmed by feelings of protectiveness for the boy.  God, if this was Sherlock’s son, he would kill him for not taking better care of him...  “What’s your name?” Greg asked as kindly and calmly as possible.  
</i></p><p>
<i>
“Sherlock.”</i>
</p><p>
In which James Moriarty and Sherlock Holmes are turned into five-year-olds with no memory of their adult lives.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Set-Up

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Update: 7/6/16
> 
> I did some editing, trying to make everything a little more cohesive.

_I will never give up smoking again,_ Sherlock promised himself as he made his way down the back alleys of London, the tension from nicotine withdrawals creeping up his neck, making his teeth clench. _God, just one cigarette._ He’d spent the last three hours ignoring texts from John and searching for someone who would sell him the one thing he craved more than anything.

He hated John. And Mycroft. And Mrs. Hudson. And that little prick in fifth year that had offered him his first smoke. Everything had been so quiet for so long and there was no damn relief! Where the hell were the murderers? The thieves? Had the entirety of the criminal population grown some societally-enforced conscience?! What was this madness?! And since when was everyone so loyal to their word that they wouldn’t sell a desperate man a cigarette? 

The dull pain in his neck morphed into a burning sensation, but Sherlock was a master at ignoring his body. All he needed was nicotine. Not in the form of gum or a patch, but in the form of tightly wrapped paper enclosing dried tobacco leaves. 

His eyes began to burn, as though someone had poured cleaning chemicals into them. Again, he repressed the firings in his brain telling him that he was in pain. He didn’t even bother to rub away the cascades that had formed as a result of the burn. 

He burst through the door of the first Tesco he came across, drawing the attention of the few customers scattered about the building. “You!” he addressed one of the pimply-faced employees. “Give me a pack--” 

“Mr. Holmes,” the kid answered bluntly, “You were in here last night.” 

With feline agility, Sherlock grabbed the boy’s collar without realizing what he was doing. “I need cigarettes, and I need them now!” 

A new voice sounded behind him, deeper, angrier. Threatening. “I don’ wanna call the p’lice but I will.” Sherlock turned around to see a large woman, barely an inch shorter than him. 

_Newly employed. Ex-wrestler. Injured knee ended prospective career. Married. Three kids. Owns lots of weaponry. Beat a burglar that broke into her house. Do not engage._ He blinked. “I will pay fifty quid for a cigarette. A single cigarette. That is the biggest profit you’ll make in this store for the remainder of your life. I suggest you take it.” 

Sherlock found himself being manhandled and thrown onto the hard concrete. Normally, he would have been capable of catching himself but his knees buckled. He briefly stopped ignoring the pain in hopes of discovering what caused it. A rush of intense pain surged through his thighs and calves, almost enough to make him cry out. 

_This isn’t the worst pain I’ve ever been in._ With great effort, he lifted himself off the sidewalk and trudged towards the nearest bench. His body felt solid and immobile, as though he was a statue. A small flame of panic lit in his chest. Of all the withdrawals he’d ever endured, none of them had felt like this. He tried to block the pain out again but it was becoming stronger, growing quickly like some sort of weed that had been seeded in his spine and was spreading outwards to his limbs. He lifted his arms to inspect them in the lamplight. He blinked stupidly, unsure of what he was seeing. The light of a passing car affirmed that his eyes had not deceived him; the veins in his arms were bulging out of the skin, like bright blue snakes. He swallowed, unable to repress the alarm rising inside of him. 

“John,” he whispered. The burning in his eyes intensified and spread over his angular cheek bones and into his gums. Even his teeth burned. And that was merely the beginning, he realized a moment later. 

A bomb exploded inside his body, sending flames across his limbs, torso and skull. He twisted and writhed, drawing his impossibly heavy arms and legs towards his core. The burning was soon joined by the feeling of metal grinding against his bones, whittling away the years of calcium buildup. He tried to maintain an objective perspective but for the first time in years, Sherlock Holmes was overwhelmed by pain. 

A loud scream erupted from his throat before blackness overtook him. 

________________________________ 

Greg Lestrade woke up to his cell ringing. The tone was foreign to him, he realized, and he cursed Sally and Anderson. Never again would they “borrow” his phone to order lunch. Groaning, he flung his arm over to the nightstand, vaguely aware that Heather’s side of the bed was vacant. Feeling suddenly empty, he was almost tempted not to answer, but when he saw it was the Yard calling, he thought better of it. 

“Lestrade,” he yawned. Saying the whole job title was too difficult at--he checked the time--three in the morning. He paused. _Three in the damned morning?!_ “Sorry, what?” 

“Detective Inspector, sir,” Gibbons, the man on the other line, said timidly, “you might wanna come down here.” 

“Is it Holmes?” he asked simply. 

A long silence answered him. 

“Joe?” 

“It’s...uh...well...can you just trust me that this is something you should look into?” 

Greg blinked, rubbing his eyes furiously. He sighed heavily, expressing his distaste at being awake this early. The empty spot beside him, however, spurred him to answer, “Yeah, gimme a few minutes.” 

________________________________ 

With only caffeine keeping his eyes open, Greg locked his car and proceeded towards the door, searching his pockets for his card key. He had to admit, it was unnerving to be arriving at the office before sunrise. Granted, he’d spent several late nights here, but he’d always been leaving in the dark, never arriving. 

_If Sherlock’s relapsed again...._ he thought threateningly. Deep down, though, he knew he wouldn't act on that anger. If Sherlock had actually relapsed, Greg would do what he always did: pick up the pieces, make sure he wasn't in any real trouble and keep an eye on him until Mycroft whisked him away for treatment. He held his card up to the scanner, but before the beep could signify the door was open, a shadowy figure caught his eye. He looked up in time to see a small silhouette climb out a window and momentarily cling to the ledge before hurtling towards the ground. Greg yelped, instinct urging him beneath the shadow, to protect it from impact. 

The catch couldn’t have gone better if it was choreographed. The small form fell perfectly into the circle of his arms, emitting a small “oomph”. The light from the streetlamp caught in the blue pools of the child’s eyes, making Greg feel cold. Despite the full cheeks, the young face promised sharpness would emerge one day. And the curly black hair... 

Greg swallowed. “You...you all right, lad?” 

“No!” the boy hissed. “I’ve got to escape!” The “s” made more of a “th” sound. Greg nearly dropped him. Why did the lisp make his insides feel panicky? 

“Little late to be escaping, isn’t it?” 

“I dunno where I am,” the boy admitted hesitantly. “I’ve--I’ve got to find my brother.” 

Greg was overwhelmed by feelings of protectiveness for the boy. God, if this was Sherlock’s son, he would kill him for not taking better care of him... “What’s your name?” Greg asked as kindly and calmly as possible. 

"Why should I tell you?" the boy asked, his expression one of pure defiance. 

Greg smiled. Truthfully, he had always enjoyed working with kids. Not so much now that he worked in major crimes, but as a PC, kids made him laugh, trying to "run away," trying to smoke beer by pouring it on a piece of rolled up paper, et cetera. "I'm a copper, aren't I?" 

The kid was not impressed. "You're not a very good one. Lemme see your badge." 

Something in the back of Greg's mind told him not to show him, that Sherlock was a world-class pickpocket, that this will only end in him shilling out twenty quid to have a new badge printed. _But this isn't Sherlock,_ he reminded himself. He pulled his credentials from his back pocket, holding them high enough that the kid could see but not touch. 

His scowl softened, and he offered his name. “Sherlock." 

Greg’s arms ceased to work, and he actually did drop the boy this time. “What?” 

“Ow!” Sherlock groaned. “That hurt!” 

Panicked, the man knelt beside him. “Sorry, sorry, are you--are you all right?” 

“No,” the boy answered with the same harshness and sarcasm characteristic of the addict-detective. “I am not all right; I am lost.” 

Greg offered his hand, which the boy didn’t take, and righted himself. “Sorry, what’s your name again? Your full name.” 

“William Sherlock Scott Holmes.” There were far too many “s”s in the name for the little boy, but the stumbling over the syllables didn’t seem to faze him. 

“Junior, right? God, please tell me there's a 'junior' or something there...." 

The boy grinned brightly. “No, I’m the first and only! Mycroft got dad’s name, but I’m the first Sherlock Holmes!” 

In that moment, Greg wanted very much to be back in his bed, snuggled against his wife (and, really, that wasn’t even necessary), not dealing with a five-year-old Holmes. This had to be a trick. People didn’t just revert to their childhood years. At least, not physically. 

The boy’s face softened significantly as he inspected Greg. “I’m sorry.” 

“It’s not your fault,” Greg responded. “I’m sure everyone will get a good laugh out of this later--” 

“No, I mean, I’m sorry I’m not very bright. Mycroft says I’m as stupid as his goldfish, Myrtle.” His giant cat-like eyes looked down at the ground. “He says it annoys people, and that's why no one likes me.” 

Once more Greg was floored by feelings of tenderness for the little boy, as if this boy was really a little Sherlock. “I highly doubt that’s the case.” Gently, Greg offered his hand, but the boy shunned it. 

“I am big! I don’t need you to hold my hand.” The lad crossed his arms, staring the DI down. 

For reasons he couldn’t really specify, Greg was unnerved. No way...he told himself. There’s no way in hell. This is a dream. A very weird dream...but isn’t that what people always tell themselves in movies when something weird happens? He shook his head. Whoever this kid was, he wasn’t Sherlock, and he was out of place, and it was his job to return him safely to his parents/guardians. “Well, c’mon then, lad, let’s go in, see if we can’t--” 

“Neverrrrrr!” Sherlock screeched as his little legs pounded against the pavement, taking him further and further away from the Detective Inspector. “You’ll never take me alive!” 

Unfortunately for the little boy, Greg had a much longer stride and was still relatively fit. Catching the wouldbe runaway wasn’t a challenge. Holding onto him proved to be something else entirely. He wasn’t overly strong for a tot, but he was feisty and thin, able to squirm his way out of Greg’s grip, until Greg finally grabbed him by the belt loops and hoisted him over his shoulder, like a sack of potatoes. 

“Lemme gooooo!” howled the mini-Sherlock. “I’ll destroy yooouuu!” The lisp only seemed to worsen the louder he got. 

Greg smirked. “I’d like to see you try, sport.” 

________________________________ 

The DI and the night dispatcher stood in the far corner of the office, speaking in hushed tones while Sherlock snooped around Greg’s desk, retrieving a sheet of newspaper. “I need this!” he announced. 

“So...you’re telling me this is Sherlock Holmes?” Greg asked Gibbons, brows raised high. 

“It has to be...the fingerprints are a visual match...we could send out a DNA sample, but we won’t know anything for at least a fortnight...” 

Greg rolled his eyes. “Oh my God, this is insanity. That--” he pointed sharply to the little boy pretending to be a pirate captain on Greg’s desk (which was currently a pirate ship), “--cannot be Sherlock Holmes. Do you understand? He’s a grown man! Early thirties! Not...not...single digits!” 

Gibbons tremulously answered, “I don’t know what to tell you, sir...I mean, it...it makes sense, even if it doesn’t...you know...make sense.” 

Now sporting a paper hat, the boy who, for all intents and purposes, was Sherlock jumped atop the desk but didn’t quite nail the landing and slipped right off the edge. “Avast!” he cried when he righted himself, holding out an extra sharp pencil as a sword. 

Greg tried to look away, but he was stupefied. “We’ve got to call Mycroft.” 

“Who?” 

“Nevermind. Just keep an eye on him. Don’t let him out of your sight again. He’s clever, remember.” The DI took the few steps out to the hallway. Calling Mycroft was always slightly disheartening because there was no “good” outcome. Either he wouldn’t answer and nothing would be accomplished or he would answer and make the caller feel useless and/or idiotic. Greg held his breath until the first ring sounded. He reminded himself that despite the theatrics, Mycroft was only a man. A man with ungodly amounts of power. How was he supposed to tell the British Government that his little brother was...little? 

It didn’t come to that, though. It went straight to voicemail. Greg shrugged, simultaneously relieved and discouraged. Sighing, he scrolled through his contacts and hit SEND. 

“Hello?” 

“John?” Lestrade answered. “We’ve got a problem.” 

________________________________ 

Sebastian Moran had the pistol in his hand before he was even fully awake, pointed at the head of the intruder. Alertness was one of his many attributes on which he prided himself, yet he couldn’t help but doubt his eyes when they adjusted to the darkness. 

The silhouette which sat on his chest was small and a bit plump, not the typical intruder he’d had to shoot down in the dead of night. And that was the only reason a bullet hadn’t pierced its head. “Who the hell are you?” he spat, reaching over to turn on the lamp on the nightstand. 

As soon as the darkness was dispelled, Moran’s breath left him. Light fell over the angelic face of a little boy with full rosy cheeks and long eyelashes. But that grin...that grin was unholy, the unfeeling expression of a shark, the Mark of the Beast. 

Moran was a hardened man; he’d killed unnumbered people, slaughtered a tiger with his bare hands, won whole battles by himself, so it wasn’t every day something disturbed him. But this boy... Reflexively, he shoved the kid off the bed, jerking the straight razor from the pudgy little fist. 

“Oi!” he cried. “Where’d you get this? Who-who are you?” He felt stupid for asking, because it was so obviously James Moriarty, what with those big brown eyes and satanic smile, but there was no way it was James Moriarty. _I ought to just shoot him now for being so fucking weird..._

“Jimmy,” the boy answered simply, grin never fading. “Who are you?” 

“The fuck you are,” Sebastian snorted. “Who. Are. You?” 

The boy frowned, bright eyes clouding over as he stomped his foot. “I’m Jimmy Moriarty!” 

The gunman stared blankly for a long moment before seamlessly slipping out of the bed and grabbing the collar of the child’s robe to toss him out into the hallway. He slammed the door shut and locked it before taking a seat on the bed and running his fingers through his hair. 

“Moriarty,” he grumbled, searching for his phone, “you goddamn prick.” He’d call his boss and have the kid removed. (He hoped.) 

_Ah, ha, ha, ha, stayin' alive, stayin' alive._

"Wow," came the muffled gasp of the kid in the hall. "Hello? Are you calling me? Are you Moran?" 

Sebastian's jaw dropped.


	2. Pirates and Kittens

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which John and Sebastian have to manage their little ones.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Did some updating on 7/6/2016.
> 
> Tryna make this a bit more cohesive. Suggestions are always welcome.

“Are you sure?” John asked for the ninth time since he arrived at the station. “I mean absolutely-without-a-doubt sure?”

“Fingerprints match,” Greg answered. 

“Where did he get clothes that fit?” 

Greg rubbed his eyes violently. “I don’t even want to think about that, mate. Probably stole it.” He threw his head back and groaned. “There is going to be a Sherlock trail that I’m going to have to clean up tomorrow morning.” 

“It’s already morning,” John answered dully. 

The duo had been watching Sherlock through the glass of Greg’s office window for the last fifteen minutes. Sherlock had hidden himself atop a tall file cabinet, and Gibbons was frantically looking for the child that had been in the chair five minutes ago. Greg couldn’t help but enjoy watching Gibbons’ expression evolve from confusion to panic to how the hell do I tell Lestrade I lost the kid? 

John still couldn’t believe it all. “Do you mind if I go in there?” The DI nodded, and the two entered together. 

“Take a break, Gibbons,” Lestrade suggested as he took the child down off the cabinet. 

The boy kicked his feet wildly, shouting. “You ruined my fun!” 

“Hey, hey. I’m sorry, but you’ve got a visitor.” Sherlock’s curls bounced as he struggled out of Lestrade’s arms. 

“Mycroft?! Mycy! Mycyyyyy!” 

While amused at the nickname, John tried his best to concentrate on the issue at hand. “Mycroft’s not here yet. I’m your visitor. Do you know me?” He crouched down to come closer to eye-level with the child. _His eyes are spot on… Even that brown spot._

“I’ve never seen you before. I’d remember that jumper,” the boy pointed. At this, Lestrade snickered. John knitted his brow and decided to test this would-be Sherlock. “My name is John. John Watson. Tell me, do you like pirates?” 

“Obviously!” The boy pointed to his paper hat. 

“Ok, and how do you feel about detectives?” 

“You're boring me, Doctor. Come play with me! You can be my first mate! ARR,” he yelled, taking off down the hall. 

John ran after him, sweeping the boy up into his arms. He took him back to the office, where he placed his pirate captain down in front of him. Holding the small shoulders in his hands, he levels with him, “I’ll play after you answer a few more questions for me, ok?” Still pouting, the boy nodded. “Now, Sherlock, why do you think I'm a doctor?" 

“Is this a phone?” Sherlock held up a phone that was far too large for his small delicate hands. "It looks weird...but it's got oil smudges on the surface, like you pressed it against your face..." He held it up closer to inspect it. 

John’s eyes widened, “Yeah, how did you get it?” 

“Pickpocketed it. I do that to Mycy sometime, too, when he is mean to me or eats my biscuits. It’s funny to watch his reaction because he is so fat,” the boy sneered. 

“You shouldn’t do that, you know.” He put a hand out to take the device, but the child backed away, turning it over. 

“Oh…” 

“What? What do you mean 'oh'?” 

“This thing. It belonged to a family member, right? And Clara left Harry because he was drinking, didn’t she?” 

John’s face split with a proud grin. This was, without a doubt, his flatmate. But his head still urged him to be sure. “H-how did you know that?” 

“Well, the engraving on the back says a lot, but you have the phone. Your name is John, not Harry. Sometimes my mum calls me Mycroft though. Maybe your mum just got confused?” 

John looked up to Lestrade. “This is Sherlock. This is our Sherlock. I’m positive.” 

Lestrade nodded. “Told you. Everything adds up. Looks just bloody like him, and he's barking mad to boot. I tried Mycroft but he didn’t pick up.” 

John brought his hand up to the bridge of his nose, pinching. “Keep trying. This is beyond me. Us.” 

“I think if we can’t get Mycroft in the next hour, you should take Sherlock back with you.” 

Hating to be ignored, the boy started to stomp in between the two men.“I’m still here! Where is Mycroft!?” 

“I’m sorry, lad. Why don’t you go play with John while we try to get your brother here, alright? Sound good?” Lestrade, truthfully, just wanted the whole mess out of his hair. 

“Yes! You still owe me a first mate! Come on,” he yelled, grabbing the paper hat he’d made earlier. John sighed and gave his phone to the DI. 

“Mycroft might respond faster if he thinks it's me. Just get him here.” 

Sherlock made John feel old in no time. They went bouncing about the offices, looting them for “treasure.” John did most of the carrying, but he sneaked away to replace the stolen items. More than an hour passed with no response from the elder Holmes. 

“You have to take him with you, John. The rest of the officers are getting jumpy. I’ll keep trying. Anderson and Donovan will be in soon...we don’t want them meeting this little lad.” With a long and heavy sigh, John nodded and hoped that the energetic little captain would tire soon. 

He grabbed a thin arm and stopped him as he ran. “Sherlock-” 

“That’s CAPTAIN Sherlock to you!” 

“Ok, ok. Captain Sherlock, we want to get you out of here, but we don’t know where you live. Would you like to come stay with me a while? We will tell Mycroft where to find you.” 

He put on his best “thinking” face, scrunching up his little nose. “You promise Mycroft will come?” 

“I promise. Come on, maybe the landlady will have some sweets for you.” _Jesus, how do I explain this to Mrs. Hudson?_

“What kind of sweets?” 

“Er...the, uh, the yummy kind.” 

Sherlock was not impressed with that answer. He squinted his eyes dramatically, as though that would somehow remedy his situation. “Mycroft won’t let me eat sweets. He says,” and here little Sherlock adopted what John imagined was a spot-on young-Mycroft voice, “ ‘Too many sweets will make you too heavy and your peers will tease you.’ ” 

John laughed. Even at the age of five, Sherlock was a master impersonator. It amazed him that little Sherlock had so much in common with big Sherlock. It amazed him more that Sherlock never really grew up. “That’s very good.” 

Sherlock tilted his head, eyebrows high and suspicious. “You don’t know Mycroft.” 

“Oh, um, I do, actually.” John smiled softly down at the child, overcome with those tender paternal feelings that often accompany having your best friend devolve into a five-year-old. Or so John assumed. “We’re, er, friends...of a sort. He took me to the Queen’s palace once.” 

Sherlock didn’t seem convinced. “No, Mycy told me to always stay with the police.” 

“Well, that’s very good,” John conceded, “but he’s not here right now, and Greg needs you to not be here right now.” 

Sherlock planted his feet firmly, crossing his little arms, expression telling the adult that there was no way in hell he was going home with him. John came to that conclusion (on his own, thank you very much) because this little Sherlock had so much in common with adult Sherlock, he was likely just as stubborn, if not more so. He turned to yell to Lestrade. “Greg!” 

Lestrade stopped and turned, eyes looking tireder now than they had when he’d been in charge of the lad. Still, he was a good sport and responded with an energetic, “Yeah?” 

“Can you, er, accompany us home? Sherlock won’t go home with someone he doesn’t know.” 

The DI rolled his eyes, then rubbed at them roughly. “You’ve been his first mate for over an hour!” 

“Well, it’s hardly a bad thing, is it? Not hopping in with any stranger that offers you candy and a puppy from the back of the van?” John said, eyes twinkling. He was quite proud of his little detective. 

Lestrade’s shoulders sagged as he let out a heavy breath. “Gimme a minute.” He pulled his phone from the holder on his belt, dialed a number and waited patiently. “Hey, Sally? Yeah, good morning. Listen, I’ve had a bit of a quarrel with the wife again...yeah, just run get some flowers and what not...yeah, no, I’ll be back soon. Okay, thanks. Yes, I will bring pastries.” Hanging up, he returned his attention to John. “Well, off we go, then?” 

__________________________ 

James Moriarty was every bit the hellion that Sebastian imagined he was as a child. Having worked for (the adult) Moriarty for some time now, he’d grown accustomed to sleeping in, enjoying quiet mornings reading the newspaper, drinking coffee, going on an energizing run, just time to himself. Assassinations generally didn’t take place until evening and since elections had passed, it was the off season. His work was limited mostly to body-guard duties, being intimidating and the occasional murder of someone unimportant, like a cheating spouse or someone who knew too much. There were times in the past when he’d be shipped off to some third-world country to murder a weapons dealer or a competitor, but Moriarty had started to trust (as much as a psychopath can) Moran and was keeping him close by. Moran theorized it always had something to do with Sherlock having John and Mycroft having Anthea and Jim always wanted what other people had. And Sebastian was a good parallel to John, just as Moriarty was the perfect parallel to Sherlock. 

Because six-year-old Moriarty was a force of destruction, Moran had taken the tyke to one of the many flats that adult Jim owned. And Jimmy immediately proceeded to break everything that looked like glass. 

And now, Jimmy was running wild with a paintbrush. Where he’d gotten a paintbrush, Sebastian didn’t know. But he was deadset on redecorating the walls. At the moment, there was an image of a dead rose in purple paint beside the fireplace and two stick figures robbing a bank. Sebastian knew it was a bank because it was labelled as such. 

“Look!” Jimmy called. “Lookit, Bastian! Lookit!” 

Sebastian lazily looked up from the newspaper he was reading. “‘s great, buddy.” 

Jimmy stomped his foot. “No! It’s fantastic!” 

Sebastian said in mock excitement, “Oooh, so fantastic.” 

The boy scoffed. “Ugh! Die in a fire!” He stomped his foot once and folded his arms across his chest. 

The colonel would have been taken aback but he’d heard it three or four times since he’d gotten up this morning. He looked back to his newspaper for a minute before he felt the boy’s eyes boring through it. He flipped the page down, dark eyes meeting his blue ones. “I wanna kitten.” 

Sebastian laughed. “No. You’re not getting a kitten.” 

“Why?” the boy whined, his voice high enough to make someone’s ears bleed. 

Sebastian thought for a minute and could find no good answer. “Whatever,” he flipped the page back up, “this isn’t my place.” 

“So we can get a kitten?” 

“I don’t care, kid.” 

Jimmy stared at him, those black eyes unnerving him. 

“Oh my God!” Sebastian groaned, trying to hide his distress. “What do you want from me?” 

“I’m a little boy, I can’t just go places on my own. You’ll have to take me.” 

The sniper snorted. “No way in hell, runt.” 

Suddenly, Sebastian felt himself melting and he wasn’t entirely sure why. He studied the child for a long while before he realized there were giant tears pouring from Jimmy’s eyes. The soldier knew that this was a ploy, that Jimmy was taking him for everything he had, but he couldn’t shake the bizarre and unwelcomed feelings of guilt and tenderness that were coursing through him. “What are you doing?” he asked gruffly. 

Jimmy sniffled pathetically, wiping the tears from his cheeks with the back of his sleeve. “Noffin’.” 

Sebastian rose, holding his arms out to keep the boy away from him. “Stop it. Get the hell away from me.” 

Jimmy followed him, never looking away from the adult. “I just wanna kitten, Colonel.” 

Sebastian’s eyes narrowed. “How do you know I'm a colonel?” His voice was soft and lethal. That particular tone had frightened many a soldier that outranked him, frightened them into submission. He’d never had anyone disobey him while using that tone. And yet, Sebastian wasn’t a bit surprised when it had no effect on the boy before him. 

“Your driver’s license. And your dogtags,” the boy smiled sheepishly. 

Sebastian’s eyes widened, as he mentally took inventory. He was suddenly aware that he couldn’t feel his wallet in his pocket. How the hell... 

“Give me my wallet, you wee mongrel!” Sebastian growled, gripping the child by the collar. 

Jim’s grin broadened. “Give me a kitten.” 

“Are you gonna kill it?” 

The grin darkened. Sebastian shivered. Holy shit, this child is the Anti-Christ. 

“Would that bother you?” 

“Yes.” 

“Why?” 

Sebastian paused, pondering the question himself. He’d slaughtered a goddamned tiger...but he’d been in his early twenties. The tiger had killed several men in his unit, was a recurring threat; Sebastian had been an adult, still young, but he could outrun, outdrink and outdo anyone in his troupe, he’d killed before and he’d kill again. 

But a kitten...even for a sadistic apathetic psychopath like Moran, that was a little cruel. And it was disturbing that a five-year-old would be willing to murder it. Sebastian worried maybe he was getting soft. 

“Because I don’t wanna fuckin’ clean it up,” the sniper answered, pulling the brat closer. “Now give me back my shit, or I will cut your throat.” 

“Ooh!” Jimmy leered in return. “So angry! Shell-shock, isn’t that what they call it?” 

“James Moriarty, where the hell is my wallet?!” 

Jimmy licked his lips thoughtfully. “I’ll make a deal with you,” he said finally. “I’ll return your wallet to you if you’ll take me to the park.” 

“Gimme my wallet back first,” Sebastian demanded. 

“Will you take me to the park?” 

“Yes.” 

“Promise?” 

“Yup.” 

“Pinky promise?” Jimmy offered his little finger to the adult, eyes wide and pleading. 

Sebastian groaned and accepted. “Pinky promise.” 

The boy pounced away, returning a few minutes later with the wallet and the dogtags. Sebastian grabbed them from him and kicked him away. 

“Hey!” 

Sebastian said nothing. Instead, he returned to his chair and continued to read. 

“Well?” prompted the boy. 

“Well what?” 

“The park!” 

Sebastain snorted. 

“You promised!” 

“I lied!” 

“You pinky promised!” 

“I lied, you git!” 

Jimmy’s eyes burned with fury, staring daggers at the sniper. “What?” he hissed. “How could you lie?” 

“That’s what people do,” Sebastian answered, using Jim’s own words against a younger him. Sebastian studied him, surprised that Jimmy believed him, that this version of Moriarty was so twisted and evil and yet so naive. Was this what guilt felt like? Or was it tenderness? Maybe shock.... 

He watched as Jimmy tried to process this, tried to find a way out of it, looking for some pinky promise loophole. Finally, the kid erupted and began an onslaught of punches, bites, and kicks at the colonel. At first, the would-be victim found it hilarious, but then sharp little teeth concentrated on a hole in his jeans, gnawing on his knee. _That_ pissed him off, and he slammed his fist into the boy’s head, cursing loudly. 

For a fleeting moment, Sebastian thought he killed the boy, because the boy didn’t move, didn’t try to get to his feet. When he did, though, he had a bloody nose and a wild glint in his eye. “I’m telling!” Jimmy yelled, darting towards the door, taking a deep breath to begin shouting. 

Reflex and instinct took over, and Sebastian was on top of the child, covering his mouth and dragging him back inside. “Shut up! You wanna get us in trouble?!” 

“No. Just you.” 

“I’ll stab you.” 

“That’s a threat! I’m calling the police!” 

“No, you idiotic runt! If you tell the police, then they’ll know where we operate, where you live and they’ll end everything. Everything we’ve worked for!” 

Jimmy blinked simply. “None of that means anything to me! I've never worked a day in my life! I’m six. Give me a reason to change my mind and I won’t go to the police. Maybe.” 

Sebastian sighed. “I’ll get you a damn kitten.”


	3. Boys Will Be Boys

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Just some hang out times while I try to figure out where I'm going with this.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry I've been away for like 9 months. No baby, just lazy as all get out.
> 
> Update: Did some editing on 7/6/16.

Mrs. Hudson was ecstatic when she saw John walking towards the apartment with a little boy in tow. She met them on the doorstep. “Who is this?” she asked happily, clapping her hands.

“Er, it’s a bit of a long story,” Lestrade started, but he was almost immediately cut off by John. 

“It’s Sherlock.” 

“Sherlock?” she asked. Surprisingly (or perhaps unsurprisingly, given the length of which she'd known Sherlock), Mrs. Hudson wasn't too surprised. 

The boy hid bashfully behind Lestrade’s leg, peeking out just enough to study the woman. His eyes expressed intrigue at the familiarity in her tone when she repeated his name. He looked to John, then gripped Lestrade’s trousers a little tighter. 

“We’re not entirely sure what’s happened,” John explained, “but we know that it’s him. His fingerprints match, he’s got the same...characteristics. But... we’re almost one hundred percent sure that it’s Sherlock.” 

He waited to see if her breath quickened, if all the blood drained out of her face, if she wavered. But she didn’t. She merely smiled and accepted this as fact, holding out her hand. “Hello, Sherlock. Would you like to come in and have some breakfast?” 

The boy looked up at Lestrade in askance, and the DI nodded. “Are you coming in too, John?” 

“Yes.” 

“And Greg?” 

Greg’s eyes widened. He ran a hand through his hair. “Sherlock, I have to work.” 

“Mycroft said not to go with strangers!” 

“But John’s not really a stranger, is he?” Greg reasoned, getting down on one knee so he was eye-level with the child. “He was your first mate at the office." 

Sherlock glared at him, unconvinced. 

"What if I promise you to come back at lunch?” 

The boy paled. Fidgeting with the ends of his sleeves, he asked, “What if Mycroft comes?” 

“Then John’ll let me know, won’t you John?” 

“Of course,” John assured. 

Sherlock pursed his lips, then nodded. “I’m brave!” he stated, brow furrowed. 

John turned away so that Sherlock wouldn’t see him laugh. Lestrade had more experience with children and nodded. “You sure are. Take care of Mrs. Hudson and make sure John stays in line, ok?” 

Sherlock nodded solemnly, though John didn’t see because he’d taken a few steps away to release a chuckle. “Yes sir!” 

“All right, good lad. I’m leaving them in your hands.” Lestrade rose and patted the boy’s curls before offering a slight bow to Mrs. Hudson and a friendly nod to John. 

“Come on inside, and I’ll fix you a nice breakfast.” Mrs. Hudson was already fawning over the boy. 

A few minutes later, John found himself at Mrs. Hudson’s table, ensnared by the scent of cinnamon rolls baking in the oven and bacon on the stove. This was hardly a healthy meal, but hell, this was the closest he’d gotten to a home-cooked meal in ages. He hoped he didn’t appear too eager. 

Sherlock, on the other hand, was studying every painting and photograph on the wall, taking in every detail of Mrs. Hudson’s life, and making John a little apprehensive. What would little Sherlock have to say about Mrs. Hudson? What secrets would he blurt out? “You know,” he offers preemptively. “It’s not polite to stare.” 

“Not staring. Observing.” 

“And what are you observing, exactly?” Mrs. Hudson asked warmly. 

The boy blinked, reminding John of a kitten, trying to understand its surroundings. “You wanted a family. You lost yours. Your...husband,” he paused to directly look at Mrs. Hudson with serious eyes, “he hurt you.” 

Mrs. Hudson smiled sadly, but it was evident that she was extremely proud of her tennant. “That’s right. My, that’s impressive. I’ll bet your parents are right proud of you.” 

Sherlock nodded his head. “Yes! But Mycroft isn’t.” The little boy frowned, his shoulders sagging. “He says I ruined Mummy’s career.” 

Mrs. Hudson ruffled his hair. “Oh, don’t listen to that old sod. Alright, then, love, tuck in,” she said as she placed a plate of bacon and cinnamon rolls in front of him. 

John waited for a second, but when Sherlock started eating, the doctor prompted, "Sherlock, what do we say?" 

Sherlock looked around the room, like answers were going to be painted on the walls. "Er...this is great?" 

"No." 

Mrs. Hudson motioned to John. "Don't worry about it, dear." She set his plate down in front of him, and then her own before taking a seat across from Sherlock. 

"No, he needs to know manners. Sherlock, when someone makes you breakfast, what do you say?" 

Blue eyes met Mrs. Hudson's. "Is this poisoned?" he lisped. 

Mrs. Hudson chuckled, but John was less impressed. "What the hell--No, Sherlock, that is not what you say! Well, it might be what you say, but it's not what normal people say." 

Sherlock tilted his head in askance. "Then what do they say?" 

"‘Thank you.’ " 

"For what?" 

"No, people say thank you when they get something from someone else." 

Sherlock pointed to John's untouched plate. "You didn't." 

"I haven't eaten yet." 

"So," Sherlock asked, leaning back and trying to absorb this information, "there's a time limit?" 

"Er, no," coughed John. "You just say it when you get your plate." 

"But you didn't." 

John looked back to Mrs. Hudson, who had a hand over her mouth to stifle her laughter. A lifted eyebrow told John the boy had a point. The army doctor looked back to his food. "Yes, well, thank you very much, Mrs. Hudson." 

"You're welcome, dear." 

John looked back to Sherlock expectantly. Sherlock was continuing to stuff food into his mouth. "Sherlock," he prompts. 

"Hm?" A piece of bacon hangs from his lips. 

"What do you say?" 

"Oh." Sherlock turned to Mrs. Hudson, bacon flapping with the motion. "Erm, I am sorry I exceeded the time limit." Crumbs shot from his lips at the “ex”. 

John sighed, rubbing his forehead. 

Mrs. Hudson laughed, running to his side with a napkin. "Now, dear, you know better than to speak with food hanging out of your mouth. You look like a dog with it's head hanging out the window." She wiped his face, her demeanor very maternal and nurturing. The ease at which she slipped into the role of mother made John's heart ache. He was suddenly afraid to ask how she lost her family. He swallowed, glancing down at his plate. 

"Or a snake," Sherlock added, eyes brightening. 

"I don't like snakes into my house." Mrs. Hudson put her hands on her hips, feigning sternness. 

"What about pirates?" 

"What kind of pirates?" 

Sherlock's small nose crinkled. "What kind of a question is that? Mean ones, of course! Ones that steal gold and sword-fight and have hooks for hand!" 

Mrs. Hudson shook her head. "No sir, I only allow nice pirates in my house." 

The boy scrunched his nose. “Nice? Pirates aren’t nice! Don’t be absurd!” 

Mrs. Hudson looked to John, slightly surprised. John shrugged. “Well, he’s still Sherlock...” 

She looked back at the child. “All right, then, let’s compromise. You be a good boy in here and you can be a bad pirate outside. How does that sound?” 

He contemplated this, bringing his finger to his lips, probably a gesture he had seen on television. Mrs. Hudson beamed at the slightly pretentious little boy. “Hmmm. What’s in it for me?” 

“Sweets. And hugs.” 

He folded his arms across his chest. At first, John and Mrs. Hudson thought he was going to say no, but then he squeaked out, “Ok, I accept.” His face is as serious and devoid of humor, just as he had been as an adult, as he continued to tear into his meal. 

The trio ate in relative silence. Or rather, John and Mrs. Hudson watched and listened in horror as Sherlock finished his breakfast, slurping and gnawing as if he’d been raised by wolves. When Sherlock jumped down from his seat and dusted off his shirt, Mrs. Hudson asked, “How did this happen, John?” 

“I honestly don’t know. I just...gotta call from Lestrade.” 

Mrs. Hudson addressed Sherlock next. “Do you know what happened, dear?” 

“I woke up naked,” he answered simply, reaching for his mug of tea. 

“So, really, nothing out of the ordinary.” John roll his eyes, remembering the incident at Buckingham Palace. 

Mrs. Hudson ignored him. “Is that all you remember, sweetheart?” 

He squints his eyes. “Mycroft, the stupid whale, lost me at the park! I hate him.” 

“Aw, no, you don’t mean that, surely.” 

Sherlock mused over this long and hard. “No. But he thinks he is the boss of me and he isn’t. No one is! Except the sea! The sea doesn’t think I’m stupid!” 

“Calm down, calm down,” John murmured. “Don’t need you getting all excited and spilling your tea.” 

Sherlock pointed a pudgy little finger at him. “You aren’t the bossa’ me, either!” 

“Excitable little boy, isn’t he?” Mrs. Hudson chuckled. “When you get finished, we’ll go to the park to look for treasure.” 

___________________ 

When the phone rang, Lestrade was too distracted to even consider checking who was calling him before he answered. He simply pressed the green button and stated his name. 

“What do you bloody mean he’s a child?” 

Lestrade looked at the screen, shocked. _Mycroft Holmes_. “Hello to you too.” 

“Gregory, I am not in the mood. What the hell are you playing at leaving a voicemail on my phone indicating Sherlock’s reverted to a five-year-old?!” 

Lestrade rolled his eyes. “If you’re gonna get snippy, I’m not going to talk to you.” 

“You don’t have much of a choice.” 

“I’m in the middle of three homicides and two child abductions. Your brother is the last thing on my mind.” 

He could hear Mycroft’s displeasure in the silence. “Just tell me, if you’d be so kind.” 

“I really can’t explain it,” Lestrade answered truthfully. “I got called in here at three in the morning about some little kid having a meltdown in Regent's Park, and suddenly there was a black-headed little boy running around my office pretending to be a pirate. Said his name was Sherlock and began asking for you.” 

Nothing. 

Lestrade checked the phone to see if the call had been lost. “Hello?” 

“I need to meet with you as soon as possible.” 

__________________________ 

“Gimme a piggyback ride.” 

Sebastian snorted. “Hell fucking no, kid.” 

“Pwease?” Jim jutted out his bottom lip. 

“No!” He brushed the boy away as they made their way to the pet store. “God, stop getting so close.” It would be a helluva thing if the master sniper was arrested not for murder, aiding and abetting or torture, but abducting a child. 

“Oh, daddy!” Jim teased, grabbing his hand. “Daddy, why don’t you love me?” This caught the attention of a few passersby, making Sebastian twitch. 

Hiding his face, he hissed, “Knock it off, you little mutt, or I swear to God, I’ll blow your brains out right here in public.” 

Jim flashed those black puppy dog eyes. “Is it because mummy left you?” he asked, loud enough to draw more attention. 

Sebastian grabbed the little pain in the arse by the scruff of his shirt and ducked into the nearest store. He doubled over to growl at the little punk, “Listen here, mate, I’m not your babysitter and stop calling me ‘daddy’--are you even listening?” 

Black eyes are scanning the walls in awe. Before he even turned around, Sebastian could guess what had caught the little demon’s attention. 

“Oh my god, Seb, there is so much candy in here.” 

The Colonel shook his head, gripping the back of his collar. “C’mon, then, we’re leaving.” 

“Noo!” the boy whines. “Sebby, please! Candy!” 

“I thought we were getting a kitten?” 

Jimmy frowned at him, looking genuinely wounded. “You’re supposed to be taking me to the park! You can’t even remember which promise you’re breaking! You’re a terrible kidnapper!” 

Seb swooped down to cover the runt’s mouth. “Jesus Christ, Jim, shut the fuck up,” he hissed. “May I remind you that you broke into _my_ flat? I didn’t ask for any of this shit.” 

Jim squinted at him, his only way to express his displeasure around the soldier’s massive hand covering the bottom half of his face. 

“Are you going to scream when I remove my hand?” 

Jimmy nodded. 

“Haven’t quite got down lying then, have you?” 

Another squint-based scowl. 

Sebastian motioned one of the workers over. “Listen, I’m really sorry about this,” he explained, adopting a near-perfect German accent, “but my son has some emotional problems due to a head injury. He’s going to start screaming in a few minutes, or he might anyway, so please do not be alarmed if he makes a racas. I’m really very sorry. I do hope it’s not too much trouble.” 

The worker fell for it, of course, because Sebastian could play any part nearly as well as his employer. “Oh dear, I’m very sorry. Is there anything we can do for him?” 

“No, no, we’re actually in London to meet with a child neurologist about the matter. I just didn’t want to alarm you.” 

The worker nodded. “Of course. Just let me know if I can help in any way.” He turned and walked away, not noticing the murderous glare the six-year-old was shooting him. 

Sebastian released the child, who immediately started wailing to wake the dead. It was dreadful screaming, the sort of screaming that vibrated at the top of one’s spine. “So so sorry, everyone,” the sniper announced over the shouting. “It’s a brain injury, so sorry. He had trouble breathing as a baby…” 

He carried the boy back outside, trying to appear paternal (and not at all murderous) as he shushed him. 

When Jimmy was hoarse from screaming, the sniper sat him down on a bench, kneeling in front of him the way he’d seen some fathers do when their children were upset. 

“For the love of God, what is your problem?” 

“I don’t know,” the boy sniffled. 

“What do you mean, you don’t know?” 

Jimmy brought his knees to his chest and buried his face in his hands. He suddenly seemed so tiny and frightened, and those weird feelings of duty and tenderness resurfaced in Sebastian’s chest. “Are you playing me?” 

The boy looked up, his eyes wet. “I don’t know.” 

“What?” 

“I...I had a brother once. And we were going to be best friends, my mum said…” 

_Fuck. Fuckity-fuckity-fuck._ Yes, Sebastian suddenly remembered the brain injury story. It had probably been floating around in his subconscious and that’s why it came to the forefront of his brain in a panic. When he’d researched James Moriarty he’d discovered there had been a brother. An unnamed brother who had died during childbirth because of a brain injury. 

_”I only remember the doctor telling my dad that he wasn’t breathing…”_ Jim had told him one night after he’d had too much to drink. 

Sebastian swallowed thickly. “Oh, er, well...I’m...I’m sorr--Did it, you know, bother you?” 

Those bottomless black doe eyes met his. “I don’t know. I don’t know. I don’t know! Everyone wants to talk about it all the time! I don’t know!” 

Sebastian blinked, uncomfortable. “Well, er, let’s, uh, let’s go get a kitten, yeah? That’ll maybe make the tears stop?” 

“I don’t want one anymore,” Jimmy said sadly. 

“Well, what do you want?” 

“I don’t know.” 

“Jimmy, I can’t make you stop crying if you don’t tell me what you want.” 

“Maybe I just want to cry!” the boy shouted, his brows knitted so tightly they nearly touched. 

Sebastian thought for a long moment. “Do you want to go home and cry?” 

Jimmy hesitated before nodding his agreement. “Will you give me a piggyback ride?” 

Sebastian sighed. “Yes, I suppose.”


	4. Pirating and Coloring

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mycroft comes to visit. Moran can't fucking color.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry, it's a bit short. I really need to focus on legitimate original fiction writing, but it's hard...and it's really nice to get feedback on your stories from strangers. 
> 
> So, here we are. Enjoy.

Greg Lestrade was not pleased to be stepping into the 221 Baker Street collection of flats behind the stuffed-shirt spook called Mycroft Holmes. He was even less pleased that the elder Holmes had revealed absolutely nothing about what was happening. Damn Holmeses and their damn dramatics.

...though he had a few theories he'd cooked up since this morning. 

One, Sherlock had been cloned. Either he cloned himself or Moriarty cloned him or Mycroft had him cloned. Two, Sherlock had had a child and named him Sherlock and then hid him away in a box as part of an experiment. Three, Sherlock had developed a time machine and the real Sherlock that he knew had gotten lost in time. 

Granted, he was probably exhausted...and he needed to start back on those anti-depressant pills again. Something. Damn his wife. 

Mycroft didn't bother knocking on the 221B door, he just walked right in. Greg followed suit. John didn't even look up from his paper. "Dr. Watson, I presume you know why I am here?" 

John sipped slowly at his tea. When his eyes finished reading whatever paragraph he was on, he folded his paper slowly and neatly and set it aside. "I was wondering when you'd show up. No issue kidnapping someone your brother meets, but as soon as he gets turned into a child, no sign of you. Typical." He stretched and turned to look at the government official and the detective inspector. "Greg." 

"John," Greg nodded. 

"You don't know that that's the case," Mycroft deflected. 

Greg puffed out his chest, feeling proud. "Anthea told me that was the case. She said the DNA matched up." 

Mycroft rubbed his eyes, suddenly very annoyed. "Stop talking to my assistant, if you would, please, Detective Inspector." 

"Wait, she talks to you?" John demanded. 

Greg grinned. "Yeah, I think she's got some daddy issues or something." 

John crossed his arms. "Huh. You're not that much older than me." 

"Yeah, but I greyed a lot earlier than you did." 

"Anyway," Mycroft cleared his throat, desperate to bring the situation at hand to the forefront, "my brother is where exactly?" 

"Mrs. Hudson took him to the park." 

Mycroft sighed. "Why?" 

"Why wouldn't she? She's a natural caregiver." 

"I don't know, perhaps because he's experienced a cellular regression and has no business being outside?" 

"Cellular regression?" 

"Yes. I suppose he was exposed to a certain top secret chemical at Baskerville. It causes a sort of reverse mitosis. The exposed experiences a sudden burning sensation, and, if they survive, they are reverted to the form they took approximately 30 years ago." 

John stared. "You know that's not actually possible, don't you?" 

"Given your medical training, and granted that modern day medical curriculum is approved by my offices before publication, you have no reason to believe otherwise." 

John straightened. "Sorry?" 

Mycroft didn't answer, just simply continued. "It's been very successful on certain prisoners of war." 

Greg frowned. "How is that legal?" 

"It was developed in North Korea. That's the extent of the information you will be receiving on the matter. Now, please produce my brother." 

John rolled his eyes. "Sherlock! Oh, no answer. Probably because he's not here." He gave Mycroft a deadpan stare. Greg tried to hide his amusement. 

"Well, when will they return, Dr. Watson?" Mycroft asked, trying his hardest to sound pleasant and not at all offended. 

"They went to the _park_. There's not a given amount of time that people spend at the park." 

Mycroft was losing patience. "Text her, John Hamish Watson or I will do it myself." 

"Hamish?" Greg repeated. 

"Shut up," John shot back. "And Mrs. Hudson doesn't text." 

Mycroft snorted. "Perhaps not you. But she does in fact text." 

John tilted his head, but before he could press the matter, a blur of red and black burst through the door shouting like a pirate. "...and baths be no morrrre!" 

Mrs. Hudson wasn't far behind, giggling and carrying bags from a sweet shop, a costume shop, and a museum. "He's a livewire. Oh, hello Mycroft." She turned suddenly very cold. "Sherlock's been telling me all about you. I'm very disappointed in you, young man." She reached into one of the bags and retrieved one of the shoes that Sherlock had been wearing earlier and bopped the government official on the face. "You're a terrible brother!" 

Mycroft's eyes widen, and, fearing for his landlady's safety, John slipped between them. "Mrs. Hudson, perhaps you could go catch him please?" 

Before anyone could act, Greg let out a pained groan as the Sherlock-shaped blur hurled his mass towards the DI. "AND YE WALK THE PLANK!" 

"For what?!" Greg demanded, trying to pull the child from his back and failing miserably. "Jesus, your pinching my back!" 

"You're surprisingly fluffy," Sherlock told him. "Just like Myc." 

"Wait, what?" 

Mycroft cleared his throat. "William Sherlock Scott Holmes! Sit down this instant." 

The boy let go instantly, crashing to the floor. He was on his feet in a flash, recognition plain on his cherub-like face. "Mycroft?" he whispered. There was a look of relief, possibly even a smile. 

Mycroft's face softened. "Yes, brothermine." 

Sherlock's face suddenly reddened, contorting into something fierce and angry. "I CAN'T BELIEVE YOU GOT GROWN UP WITHOUT ME!" He pulled the sword from his sheath and charged at the elder Holmes. Mycroft didn't have time to act, and no one else in the room had the desire to act, so Sherlock's "sword" (which was actually a dull German bayonet from WWII) landed with a loud "thwack" against pinstriped shin, and was closely followed by another, and then another. "AND THEN YOU LOST ME! I WAS ALL ALONE IN REGENTS PARK!" 

"Sherlock," Mrs. Hudson finally cooed, "I told you we would only get that sword if you promised not to hurt anyone." 

Greg grabbed the weapon from the boy and held it up to the light to examine it. "Wait a second...is this a real weapon?" 

"Yeth!" Sherlock announced happily. He started jumping for the bayonet. 

John glared at Mrs. Hudson. "Why would you do that?" 

Mycroft, gritting his teeth, said, "Not the first time you've supplied weapons to minors, eh, Martha?" 

Mrs. Hudson paled. She stumbled for a moment then held her head high. "I have no idea what you're talking about." 

Greg looked mortified. "Holy shit. What the hell happens in this flat?" 

Mycroft had taken a seat on the sofa and was examining the purpling mass of skin where Sherlock had hit him. John's medical curiosity brought him to take a seat beside the government officially. "It looks nasty, but I think you'll be fine." 

"Mycroft doesn't bleed," Sherlock hissed, his voice low and dark. "The traitorous bastard!" 

Mrs. Hudson gasped. With one hand on her hip, she grabbed the little Holmes by the ear. "Mr. Holmes! What did I tell you about that sort of language in my house?" 

The boy seemed to go limp. "Ow! Ow! John! Gabriel! Make her stop!" 

Mycroft, looking suddenly murderous, snapped, "Unhand him right now, Mrs. Hudson. He is not yours to discipline." 

Greg furrowed his brows. "Wait, wait, wait, is he referring to me? Did he seriously just call me Gabriel?" 

"You're not the boss of Mrs. Hudson either!" 

"Sherlock, do not talk to adults like that!" 

"You can't tell me what to do, Pudgecroft!" 

Mycroft turned bright red. "Stop being a brat, you stupid little boy!" 

Sherlock let out an earpiercing scream and dashed towards his brother again, latching his teeth into the exposed bruise. 

___________________ 

_thwip_

The disgraced Colonel looked down at the now broken tip of the colored pencil. "Shit," he hissed, reaching for the pencil-sharpener. 

Jimmy looked over his shoulder and scoffed. "Did you even watch the movie? Tiana had black hair." 

"Oh my God, don't tell me how to color. You set the real estate guys on fuckin' fire." He motioned to the ripped out picture from the _The Princess and the Frog_ coloring book they had picked up on the way home. The brothers Fenner had blood pouring from their eyes and were on fire as was the entire background. 

"Tiana should have done that. She coulda gotten her restaurant much faster." 

Moran snorted. "Fairly certain the social climate of the time wouldn't've allowed that." He sharpened the blue pencil he had been using. 

Jim stared, his eyes looking even darker. "She should've killed them all." 

Moran felt something akin to the creeps crawl up his spine. "Okay, then." He went back to coloring. Jim did as well, chuckling darkly. 

_thwip_

"What the fuck?" Moran hissed. "These are the puniest coloring pencils!" 

As he reached for the sharpener, Jim snatched it. "Put on _The Lion King_ ," the mini-mastermind demanded. 

"No, I'm trying to fucking color!" 

"You said you would watch a movie with me!" 

"And I did! We watched the Frog Princess Movie!" 

"You slept through it." 

Moran felt his eye twitch. He darted for the rugrat, who wasn't anywhere near as fast. With the kid in a headlock, Sebastian Moran jerked the sharpener from his little fist, then dropped him to the floor. Jim made a loud gasping noise, his face white. The sniper looked over his shoulder as the small boy began to convulse. The former froze. "Holy shit," he whispered. Mentally, he ran through his notes on what he knew about his boss. _Obsessive, egomaniac, dead brother, bipolar (undiagnosed but undoubtedly true)._ Nothing about any sort of seizure disorders. 

"Oh fuck." The little freak was a chronic klepto. He'd probably picked his pocket. "The cyanide pills." Sebastian dashed to the coat rack, rummaging through the pockets. The pills were missing. "Holy shit." 

He'd disposed of plenty of bodies before, but never a kid's. In fact, he'd told Jim that when he'd signed on. He would kidnap, terrify and possibly even torture someone under 18, but never murder. Something about dead kids creeped him out. How the fuck did someone get rid of a kid's body? I mean, he had the acid and the appropriately-sized vats, but... 

He would have to burn the complex to the ground. That was all there was to it. He would burn everything down. Start the fire on the other end of the building to avoid investigators looking at this flat first for evidence of a crime scene. With so many bodies in the morgue, who would think that a dead orphan was the reason the fire was started? 

He turned around. 

"Hii." 

Holding out the unswallowed pills, the white face of the small Irish bastard looked up at him with a vicious grin. Sebastian screamed. 

"Gotcha!" 

___________________ 

"Untie me!" Jimmy screamed. 

Moran stuffed a clean sock in his captive's mouth, then covered it with duct tape. 

Jimmy was currently bound to the couch with duct tape and bungee cords, and his captor was more than satisfied that he couldn't escape. Even if he managed to undo the handcuffs, the tape was too constricting for him to wiggle out. He aimed the remote at the TV. 

"Nants ingonyama bagithi Baba!" 

"Now watch _The Goddamn Lion King_ , you wee mongrel!" 

Jimmy slouched, trying to look angry, but Sebastian could tell he was slightly pleased that he had gotten what he wanted. Moran took a deep breath and returned to the dining room table to finish coloring. 

_thwip ___

He sighed, grabbing the sharpener from the ground. He sharpened the colored pencil and set to coloring again. 

_thwip_

"GODDAMN THESE MOTHERFUCKING PENCILS!" 

Jimmy gleefully watched as the enraged sniper stormed through the house shouting, "WHY THE FUCK DID YOU INSIST ON THIS GODDAMNED BRAND, YOU SADISTIC LITTLE BITCH! I JUST WANT TO FUCKING COLOR! WHERE THE HELL IS MY SILENCER? I'M GONNA SHOOT THE WHOLE DAMN BOX!" 

Jimmy settled into his bindings, eager to watch the film Moran had bought him. And if he got bored, he could watch Moran murder individual colored pencils. 

__________________________ 

Sherlock was wailing, tears pouring out of his red eyes as he clung to Mrs. Hudson. "I don't want," hiccup "to go to Baskerville. I wanna," hiccup "stay with you and John." Another hiccup. 

"Sherlock, stop being so dramatic--" Mycroft started but was silenced by the shriller, louder screams of his baby brother. He retreated once again to the corner. 

"Oh, love, don't you worry, I won't let you go anywhere," Mrs. Hudson cooed, wiping the snot away from Sherlock's nose. "C'mon, dear, blow." 

Sherlock blew his nose long and loud and continued to weep. 

John was beginning to see why Sherlock would turn to drugs in his adolescence. The whole bit about his mind needing stimulation or quiet was probably true, but Sherlock's brain was undoubtedly the cause for his out-of-control anxiety. He'd seen this in children, occasionally, and he'd referred them to psychiatrists for intensive therapy and possibly medication. It was heart-breaking. 

The doctor turned to Mycroft. "You do realize that your brother has an untreated psychological disorder, right?" 

Mycroft huffed, crossing his arms. "Don't be absurd. He's just spoiled." 

"Um, no, this isn't being spoiled. This is a melt-down." 

"Yes, so you see his flare for dramatics is a lifelong trait." 

"No. Why didn't your parents ever get him to a doctor? This is anxiety or maybe Asperger's. It's no wonder he looked for help in a needle. Why the fuck didn't you get him help?" He couldn't dampen the anger rising in his chest. 

Mycroft glared at him. "There's nothing. Wrong. With him. He's just a little boy who doesn't have the intelligence to appropriately process his emotions." 

John stepped back, looking positively livid. "Sherlock is very intelligent, you _arse_ ," he spat. "And that's why he's so afraid. He knows this isn't normal." 

"I know it's not normal, Dr Watson. That's why I'm taking him to Baskerville," Mycroft spat back, standing up straight and towering over the ex-soldier. "As his friend, you should be on my side." 

"You're a right bastard, Mycroft." 

Sherlock was sniffling in Mrs. Hudson's lap. Greg couldn't help himself; he reached over to stroke the little boy's hair. It seemed to help soothe him just a bit. "What if you brought some of the scientists here? I think that'd be easier for him. Keep him in a place he sort of knows with people he sort of knows." 

"No one can know what's happening. It can't be in emails or texts or even a phone call. Sherlock was never supposed to be at Baskerville. _I_ could get in trouble if that gets out. He would be tried for treason. And, if you'll notice, he didn't panic like this when he first found himself in this body," Mycroft said. "He's panicking now because he knows it will get him attention." 

"But he was scared," Greg said. "The reason my officers found him was because he was crying hysterically in Regent's Park. And he didn't just jump out the window because he was bored--he was frightened. He was doing everything he could to get away from danger. And that's what he's doing now." 

Mycroft rolled his eyes. "If you're all finished playing child psychologist," he said as he stepped towards his brother, "I'm taking him to Baskerville." 

"Then I'm going with you," John stated. 

"Me too," Greg chimed in. 

"Me too, and if you try to stop us, Mycroft Holmes, you'll learn where it is I keep my arsenal of weaponry," Mrs. Hudson said. "And don't act like you don't know what I'm talking about. I know your agents come in here when I'm gone. They come in here uninvited and steal my herbal soothers and all my locks are picked." She got to her feet, the little boy balanced between her arm and her hip. "I've got you, sweetheart. You're going to be just fine, I promise." 

Greg gaped. "Jesus Christ, what happens in this flat?"


	5. Not My Problem

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Moran decides to leave little Jimmy at the Diogenes Club. Mycroft is thin. Sherlock is not excited about it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm sorry, I know it's really short. I will write more this week, I promise. Like for real. I promise.

Despite Mycroft Holmes' personal philosophy of equality amongst the sexes, and despite the various strides in social progress within British society, very few women every stepped foot inside the Diogenes Club. It had been founded as a gentleman's club, and while certain bylaws had been changed, it was difficult to change the hearts and minds of stuffy politicians. As such, few non-males had the desire to visit such a place. Besides, wasn't there actual work to do?

Nonetheless, Anthea, as bodyguard and personal assistant to Mycroft Holmes, spent a good deal of her time at the Club. She didn't mind. Good scotch, the occasional cigar, silence from the incessant chatter of Mycroft's politician "friends." The Club was her favorite part of her job if she was honest. It was one of the few places that it was acceptable to "ignore" Mycroft's calls and text back with, "At the Club. Leave a message." 

Currently, she sat at the CCTV control panels, scanning the screens. There were rumors that Magnussen's men were out and about, meeting with terrorists for an "article" or whatever that meant. Anthea had no doubt that Magnussen had those connections--but she did doubt that he was stupid enough to let those rumors circulate if they were true. Nonetheless, the members were afraid and security had been bumped up...which meant someone in the basement at all times. Again, this was not something Anthea had a problem with. Sure, it wasn't her office with the bay window, but that's where the Royal Salute was kept and there were no cameras down here and who would ever need to know what happened to those four bottles of ridiculously expensive scotch? 

She was reading a report sent to Mycroft from the UN and giggling at how misinformed he'd managed to keep them for so many years when she heard the disruptive buzz of what was undoubtedly a motorbike. Off the top of her head, she couldn't think of any members who rode a motorbike, and she seriously doubted any of them did, so she moved the street-side camera to the source of the sound. 

Anthea audibly growled. "Sebastian Moran." 

___________________ 

The disgraced sniper had never discussed with his boss the time the two spent in MI-6's captivity. Sebastian didn't remember most of it, except that Mycroft's men couldn't hit much harder than a kiddie cricket team. They'd resorted to poisoning and drugging at one point, and that had been hell, but not the _worst_ hell he'd been through. He remembered vomiting quite a bit and laughing when Mycroft tried to question him. He'd told the politician, "Whatever you do to me is nothing compared to what my boss would do if he found out I talked. He's a sick little fucker." 

Sebastian assumed that whatever had been done to him had been done to Jim. Apparently, he had been wrong, seeing as he was still in his early-forties, and James Moriarty was now approximately six-years-old. 

Whilst the angel-faced hellspawn spun around in circles with a blowtorch, Sebastian Moran hatched an ingenious plan that would keep the kid from wreaking anymore havoc. At least where his stuff was concerned. The little bastard had tried to "blow-dry" his balls when he got out of the shower. That had been the breaking point. There were few things to which Sebastian was emotionally attached, but his genitals definitely fell under that category. (Not to mention the literal attachment.) 

Tiny Moriarty was not his problem. 'If Mycroft Holmes likes fucking with a person's age, he can deal with Tiny Moriarty on his own,' he reasoned. 

Which is why at tea time he found himself at the Diogenes Club (his membership having been revoked _years_ ago). 

"You remember the plan?" 

Jimmy nodded, a toothy grin plastered on his face. "I've never ridden on a motorbike before." 

Moran rolled his eyes. "Yes, you've said that, but do you remember what you're doing here?" 

"Playing hide and seek." 

"Right. Good. Now, go and hide. I'll go 'round the block a few times, and I'll come in and find you." 

"I'm very good at hiding." 

"I'm sure you are." 

"Sebastian?" 

"Promise you won't forget?" 

Sebastian's heart dropped. "What?" 

"Sometimes Dad forgets that we're playing hide and seek." 

Sebastian's eyes widened. "Sorry?" 

"He says that we're playing, but then when I go and hide, he never comes to find me. I have to go find him, but he's usually gone." 

The sniper swallowed thickly. Jesus Christ, did Jim need a counselor. "Yeah. No. I'll be...I'll be right back." 

"Promise?" Jim asked again, his black eyes wide and innocent. 

"Listen here you little manipulative little shit, I said I would come back, so I'll be back," he lied. 

The brat beamed up at him. He wasn't sure if Jim was sincere or if it was another manipulation from his bag of tricks. Either way, he felt uneasy. Was he seriously about to hand a defenseless child over to the hands of his worst enemy? 

The memory of the smell of singed pubic hair told him yes, it was definitely something he would do. 

"But, hey, er, listen lad." He reached into his pocket and pulled out a lighter. "If anything happens...use this." 

Jim's eyes lit up in recognition. "Woah," he said breathlessly. "Can I keep it?" 

"It's yours. Now go hide." 

Jim scampered away in a zigzag to a large tree, a pitiful attempt to throw the sniper off of his scent. Sebastian shook his head. He glanced over the windows one last time, seeing the livid expression of Mycroft's guard dog Anthea mashed against the bullet-proof glass. He smirked, shot her the "V sign," and sped the hell away. 

___________________________ 

"Can't we take a ship?" Sherlock whined to John. "I want to take a ship." 

"We can't take a ship. Trains are much quicker." 

"I want to feel the wind in my face! Can I put my head out the window?" 

"Heavens, no," Mrs. Hudson butted in. "My friend Mallory knew this little boy who stuck his head out the window on a train and knocked his head right off." 

"I don't think that's really a true story, Mrs. Hudson. It's an urban legend." 

"That doesn't mean it's not true, dear." She gave John a gentle pat on the shoulder as she took a seat furthest from the window in their own private compartment. "Sherlock, dear, why don't you come sit with me and you can tell me about _The Hobbit_ some more." 

"Don't encourage him," Mycroft sighed, rounding the corner, Lestrade behind him. "He has enough trouble fitting in as it is. Pretending to be a dragon doesn't make him any friends." 

Greg shrugged. "That one dog at the train station seemed to like him." 

"My brother needs human interaction; not canine." He took the seat opposite Mrs. Hudson and Sherlock. 

Sherlock frowned. "Mycy?" 

Mycroft rolled his eyes at the nickname, but it seemed more for appearances than actual annoyance. "Yes little brother?" 

"Mycy, come sit beside me!" 

Mycroft straightened up, seemingly surprised. Out of the corner of his eye, he looked at John, who was looking back at him with a strangely curious expression. Mycroft cast his eyes to the ground and rose to take a seat beside his brother. "I was under the impression you were angry with me." He scowled at John who was grinning smugly. 

"I was. You've been a terrible big brother. Mrs. Hudson told me so." 

"Then why do you want me beside you?" 

Sherlock looked at John and Lestrade in the seat across from them. He lowered his voice and put his hand to Mycroft's ear, getting to his knees to match his brother's height. "I'm scared." 

"Why are you scared?" 

"Shhh! You hafta whisper, Mycy!" the little boy ordered loudly. Then he lowered his voice again. "Because everyone keeps acting like something's not right. What's wrong Mycy? Why did you get big so fast?" 

"I didn't, brother dear. You got smaller, I'm afraid." 

"I did?" 

"Yes, yesterday morning, you were an adult. This morning you were a child." 

"I'm an adult?" 

"Yes." 

"Is Mrs. Hudson my wife?" 

"No." 

"Is John?" 

"No." 

"Then who are they?" 

"Your friends." 

Sherlock's face lit up like Christmas. "Friends? I have friends when I grow up?" 

Mycroft blinked, at a loss. "Well, yes." 

"Do they think I'm stupid?" 

Mycroft felt like the breath had been knocked out of him. The words he spoke in childhood, it seemed, would continue to haunt him for the rest of his life. "No, they don't, Sherlock. They love you very much." 

"Even Garrett?" 

"Yes, Lestrade is quite fond of you. He's also very jealous of you because you're much smarter than he is." 

Sherlock's eyes were bright and wide, and it made Mycroft's heart ache. He wished he hadn't told his little brother he was an idiot when they were younger. He wished he hadn't called him a stupid little boy this morning. Why hadn't he realized how vulnerable Sherlock was as a child? Why hadn't he been more nurturing? Anthea had always been overprotective of her little brothers; why hadn't he had that instinct? Why had it taken Sherlock nearly overdosing all those years ago for him to pay attention? 

Why was he in such a hurry to have his brother grow up again? What if this was his only opportunity to make things right with his baby brother? _Sentiment,_ he scoffs to himself. This specific concoction of chemicals could be toxic. And how would he explain to his mother and father that Sherlock "The Holy Terror of the Family" Holmes was tiny again? And would this specific experiment allow him to grow? Would he stuck as a six-year-old for the rest of his life? _Oh my God, what if he is immortal?_ He shook that absurd thought away. 

"Mycroft?" Sherlock whispered again. 

"Yes?" 

"I'm glad you're not fat anymore. I know you didn't like those other kids teasing you all the time." He snuggled close. "But I miss it a little bit. You are much softer when you're small." He patted at Mycroft's now-diminished stomach and frowned. 

Mycroft stared straight ahead, baffled at the prospect of responding. What did normal people do in this situation? Awkwardly, he raised his hand and patted the mop of black curls. John was politely looking out the window, and Greg was pretending to check something on his phone, the two trying to give the brothers a moment. 

The moment ended with Mycroft's phone ringing. He raised an eyebrow. He'd given Anthea explicit instructions not to contact him unless there was an absolute emergency. 

"This had better be worth my while." 

"A certain tiger has been spotted at the Club, sir. He's gone but he's left something behind."


	6. I Set Fire ... to the Diogenes Club

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jimmy realizes he's been abandoned. Mycroft realizes that Moran has loosed Moriarty upon the Diogenes Club. Anthea hates kids. Sherlock makes up a plan to get out of going to Baskerville.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is a bit of rush job, which I know sounds ridiculous given that I haven't updated in, like, two months, but this chapter has been giving me a fit, so I just muscled through it, you know? 
> 
> So, it's not super entertaining, but it's going to pave the way for entertainment. Let me know if something doesn't make sense. I'm trying to follow my outline, but sometimes I don't realize that I've been contradictory.
> 
> Also, Sherlock says "starcasm" instead of "sarcasm" because I used to watch this kid who always said that and I thought it was funny, so baby Sherlock does it now.

A sharp dagger shaped like worry pierced Jimmy's dark little heart. The memory of hiding on the top shelf in his parents' bedroom closet kept into his mind, insistent against his efforts to forget.

The sickly sweet smell of alcohol and something else...something musky. The cries of the strange woman his father brought into the bedroom. The realization that he hadn't been spectacularly good at hiding, but that his father hadn't looked for him...had simply found someone else to occupy his time. 

Jimmy covered his ears, as if doing so in the present could erase the sounds of the past. 

"Sebastian won't forget me," he whispered to himself. Doubt dripped from his small voice. 

He was alone again. 

He was alone in a strange place with strange smells (pipe tobacco, expensive cakes, leather furniture, tea) and strange silences. 

From the vent where he hid, he peeked through an open space to read the grandfather clock. An hour. He'd been hiding an hour. Sebastian was a hunter, a tracker, a killer. He could've found Jimmy if he really wanted. If he was really looking. 

Hot tears stung his black doe eyes. 

He was alone, and he was scared. 

James Moriarty palmed the zippo lighter the ex-soldier had given him. He steeled himself, gritted his teeth. 

"Big boys don't cry," he hissed. He wiped the tears from his eyes. "Because no one ever answers." 

___________ 

Mycroft paled as he watched the footage from his cellphone. He rewound the feed again, watching as a small child, likely male, with large black eyes and a high forehead zig-zagged across the lawn of the Diogenes Club. 

Anthea had spotted Moran. Fully adult Sebastian Moran. He scanned his memory for the report he'd received about the Colonel's "session." [REGARDING THE FOUNTAIN OF YOUTH, SUBJECT EXPERIENCES BURNING SENSATIONS. NO EXTERNAL SIGNS OF CHANGE. INCREASED HEART RATE. VOMITTING. TESTED HIGHLY ACIDIC. NO FURTHER APPLICATION GIVEN.] 

He'd personally overseen James Moriarty's "session." The vaporized chemical had flooded the cell from the vents. Mycroft had watched behind the safety of a plexigas window. Moriarty had only sneered at him, blowing him a kiss. A patch of skin on his thigh had seemed to melt, bubbling and falling away to expose the muscle beneath...and just as quickly, the wound appeared to heal, leaving a pale pink patch. 

Mycroft hadn't given it a second thought. He'd merely moved on to other tactics, assuming that the North Koreans had lied about the effectiveness of the chemical. 

But the bone structure of the boy...it made sense that it would one day form the face of James Moriarty. 

And his brother had, in fact, become a child again a few weeks after his exposure at Baskerville. It was hardly impossible that the Consulting Criminal would have a similar response. 

"Who is it?" Sherlock asked, peering over his brother's shoulder. 

"A very bad man." 

"He doesn't look like a very bad man. He looks like a very happy little boy." 

John pursed his lips. "But I don't think we'd've stopped two trains in order to head back to London for just a happy little boy." He studied Mycroft. "Why is this more important than getting Sherlock to Baskerville?" 

"I fear a certain terrorist, who has been on our radar for a while, has delivered a new wave of destruction to the Diogenes Club. As you can imagine, that would be quite dangerous for most of the Western World." 

"The Waters family?" Lestrade asked, eyes wide. 

Mycroft rolled his eyes. "For God's sake, no one cares about menial theft, Detective Inspector." 

Greg glared. "It's not menial theft! It's major crimes!" 

Mycroft answered with a condescending smile. 

"Moriarty?" John breathed. "Is it...Moriarty?" 

"I believe so." 

John nodded. "Excellent. Let's tie a bomb around his chest and see how he likes it." 

Lestrade stared. "What?" 

John was silent. 

"John, why the hell wouldn't you tell someone?" 

"I told Mrs. Hudson." 

Mrs. Hudson nodded. "Yes, dear, he did tell me." 

Greg flopped back in his seat. "Oh, well, thank God. Mrs. Hudson has the capability and authority to make arrests." 

Sherlock tilted his head. "Was that starcasm?" 

Greg didn't bother correcting his pronunciation. "Yes." 

"Isn't starcasm supposed to be funny?" 

_________________ 

A small rivulet of black smoke emanated from the Club. Anthea stood outside, her eyes blazing. Mycroft lept from the vehicle and briskly made a beeline for his assistant. 

"Have you called the fire brigade?" 

"Obviously not," she snapped. 

"Building has been evacuated?" 

"Of course." 

Sherlock darted out of the car, despite John's attempts to keep him inside. Anthea reached out and grabbed the child by the curls before he could run into the building. Mycroft was impressed. 

"But I want to seeeeee!" the boy whined. "The smoke is black! That means--" 

"Sherlock!" Mrs. Hudson shouted from the car. Lestrade offered her his hand, aiding her exit. "Sherlock Holmes, surely your mother taught you better than to run into a burning building." 

"It's contained!" the boy answered, trying his hardest to escape the Amazon grip Anthea had on him. "Probably not even fully ignited!" 

"Black smoke means life is not sustainable," Mycroft scoffed. "You know this." 

Sherlock's eyes widened. "But...if there's a little boy in there...shouldn't we--" 

"Fire's out. I just can't locate the starter." Anthea handed her handful of curls to John, who had just joined the group. Close behind were the DI and the landlady. 

"What initiatives have you taken to locate him?" 

"Motion detectors are live throughout the east wing. Heat detectors are set throughout the rest of building, though they won't be much good unless the bastard gets out of the ventilation system. All high-security clearance rooms have been locked, so there's no way of him getting in there since they use a separate, recycled air ventilation system." 

"The underground levels?" 

"Locked down. I've been watching the CC feeds from my phone. So far, no sign of the magpie or the beast." 

"Ready to shoot on sight?" 

Anthea smirked. "You've no idea." 

"What?" Mrs. Hudson asked. "Shoot on sight? You're going to shoot a little boy?" 

Mycroft let out an exasperated sigh. "Who will grow up to indirectly murder hundreds of thousands of people." 

"Well, Sherlock will grow up to shoot a smiley face in my wall, but you don't see me preparing to murder anyone." 

"Oh my God, I hate civilians." Anthea took a step closer to the older woman. "Remember he also almost killed John. And Sherlock." 

Mrs. Hudson furrowed her brow. Conflict played out on her face. "But he's just a boy. He doesn't know those things now...that's not in his heart now." 

"Sentiment," Mycroft shot back. 

Lestrade shuffled his feet. "I don't know, I'm with her, I think. It's a bad business, shooting a wee one." 

"She won't shoot to kill, Lestrade." 

Anthea raised an eyebrow. "Won't I?" 

"You can the sniper...but not the child." 

"You should've offed both when you had them in captivity." 

Mycroft gritted his teeth. "I had my reasons, Anthea." 

Anthea rolled her eyes again, but didn't press the matter. "Shall we head back inside and start searching?" 

The group, headed by Anthea, who was still radiating rage, entered the Diogenes Club. The club had been evacuated long before Anthea had discovered the fire, meaning that various periodicals, half-consumed plates of food and cups of tea, and cigar ash littered the various rooms. She hadn't known what the sniper had in mind when he set the little boy running into the Club, but she certainly wouldn't take any risks with the safety of the people inside. They were hers to protect, and she prided herself on doing a damn good job of it. 

John froze in the doorway. "Oh shit. Where's Sherlock?" 

__________________________ 

Slipping away from John hadn't been a difficult task. Once he'd seen the soldier tense at the mention of "shoot on sight," he knew he was no longer the center of attention. 

Which would be easily remedied when Sherlock found the "magpie." He wasn't entirely sure if the magpie and the little boy were the same person, but he was sure he could find either a magpie or a boy. And John and Mrs. Hudson would be so proud of him. 

_"Oh Sherlock, you're so clever! You found him!"_ he imagined them saying. _"What a smart boy."_

And Mycroft would say, _"You've saved me so much time, brothermine. And you've brought us the boy and the bird safe and sound!"_

And he would say, _"So I don't have to go to Baskerville anymore?"_

_"Of course not, my genius little brother."_


	7. New Best Friend

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sebastian grapples with guilt. Sherlock finds Jimmy.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I AM SO PISSED OFF. I HAD WRITTEN ABOUT 400 MORE WORDS BUT I WAS WRITING IN NOTEPAD AND SOMEHOW I DELETED THOSE 400 WORDS AND THE UNDO BUTTON ONLY WORKS LIKE ONCE OR SOMETHING UGH.
> 
> Anyway, the chapter was supposed to contain more, but I'm tired and I fell down the steps last week and so it hurts to sit for too long. Also, if I don't post this now, it'll probably be forever until I post again. I hope this sort of makes sense at least. For a long time I was planning to have the babies hide in the vents, but research led me to believe that drop-ceilings would be the better option. Plus apparently drop-ceilings are good for quieting echoes, which the Diogenes Club would need right?
> 
> My plan is to go through and edit some tomorrow or maybe even tonight because there are a few continuity errors between chapters and for that I am sorry. 
> 
> I hope this doesn't disappoint. Some comments have been like, "Can't wait to read more!" and I'm like, "Man, what if the next chapters just really suck and the readers are disappointed??"
> 
> I don't wanna disappoint you guys. Kisses to each and every one of you.
> 
> BY THE FUCKING WAY, WRITING DEDUCTIONS IS THE HARDEST THING EVER OKAY

Very few things in the world made Sebastian Moran sad. Among those few things were people who couldn't shuffle a deck of cards, stolen masterpieces, Arsenal losing, and now Jim Moriarty.

Or rather Jimmy. Pre-Jim. The doe-eyed demon waiting patiently for his daddy to come find him. Never being found. The fact that the Consulting Criminal made his living in the shadows, remaining unseen, disturbed him even more. 

No one ever _found_ James Moriarty. Had anyone ever even looked? 

Why in the hell did this bother him? 

"We're not friends," Moran muttered over a whiskey. "We're not. Never have been. And I'm not a babysitter." 

Jimmy's picture of the (ablaze) Fenner brothers from the _The Princess and the Frog_ coloring book stared at him, judging him. 

"Just business." 

The Fenners weren't impressed with his answer. 

"What the fuck am I supposed to do with him, eh? I'm not his fuckin' daddy." 

Silence. 

_"Promise you won't forget?"_

Jimmy's small voice echoed in his mind, making the hairs on the back of his neck stand up. He could see the little boy staring up at him, eyes wide, his smile unsure, almost pleading. 

_"Please come back for me?"_

The sniper scoffed at the picture. "Nice try, idiots, but he didn't fucking say that. He's gotta a lighter, he's gonna be fine. AND he is not my concern." 

He finished off his drink, and pulled his phone from his pocket. He stared at the screen. No texts. No emails. No missed calls. 

He'd been wanting a vacation. He propped his feet up on the table, obscuring his view of the picture. 

_"I need a bodyguard. You need a job. We're meant for each other, tiger."_

That had been his job offer. That's how Jim had hired him. Only just now, in the quiet of Jim's destroyed living room, did it occur to him that the deviant genius had admitted his need for someone to protect him _before_ he stated Sebastian's needs. 

Sebastian furrowed his brow. 

When they first met Jim had explicitly asked him to be the one to find him. 

How long had Jim been reaching out to strangers, hoping that someone would find him when it mattered? 

He shook his head. A lot of psycho-babble nonsense. 

___________________________________________ 

It hadn't taken him long to determine the approximate whereabouts of the fire origin. It was in the northwest side of the building, likely on the third floor, based on how little smoke had reached the first floor. He'd used an out-of-commission dumbwaiter he discovered behind a bookcase (pale, nearly invisible vapors of smoke were slipping behind the bookcase, which tipped him off), pulling himself up to the second floor and squeezing out from behind a large, wing-backed armchair. 

And if he could find the origin of the fire, he could likely find the happy little boy that frightened John and Mycroft so. 

He'd read a book on theatre architecture last summer (because Papa wouldn't let him read one on bomb shelter architecture) to better understand how he might dampen any explosives that might emanate from his room since Nana had given him some left over volatile chemicals from her lab. It hadn't been overly helpful (he'd been caught several times), but he had learned about acoustics and ventilation. The Diogenes was an old building, but the architects had borrowed some Japanese elements. Specifically, the drop-ceilings, to curb echoes. Typically, they couldn't support a lot of weight, but given the weight distribution of the little boy he had seen in Mycroft's video feed, he was certain that boy wasn't travelling through the ventilation system, but rather inside the drop ceiling. 

Sherlock _loved_ hiding games. He loved the passive observation being the hider afforded him as much as he loved the deductions that came with being the seeker. It was thrilling; it made his heart race. So much excitement to be had in stillness and in searching. 

He also loved making Mycroft get off his blubbery bottom and come look for him. The look of flustered annoyance was worth the lecture he would receive once Mycroft caught his breath. Of course, Grown-Up Mycroft seemed to handle legwork much better than the big brother little Sherlock knew. He worried his bottom lip between his teeth. How fast with this Mycroft be? 

Sherlock smirked. He would just have to be even faster. 

He shut his eyes and tiptoed into his Mind Fort, a mental construct he'd been forced to build so that Mycroft wouldn't think he was an idiot. 

_Magpieboy entered through open side-window on first floor. Room to the right. Had made his way to third floor without being seen. Evacuation would likely take 10-20 minutes based on mobility of inhabitants and urgency conveyed by Anthea. How long had it been between the boy's entrance and his setting fire on the third floor that required evacuation? Oh no! What if the evacuation took place before the fire?!_

_Too many variables. Oh no!_

The younger Mycroft's voice cut through his thoughts. _No, calm down, you stupid little boy._

Sherlock frowned, sticking out his tongue. "No big brothers allowed!" he whispered. 

_Oh. Wait. Of course, there was no floor border in the room where I discovered the dumbwaiter, which means that it was likely pushed all the way against the wall originally, and the smoke wouldn't have been able to escape through the dumbwaiter. Magpieboy must've moved it himself and used the dumbwaiter too!_

_Why had he made sure to move the dumbwaiter back to the first floor, though?_

_So no one would know he'd used it, but he hadn't been strong enough to pull the bookshelf flush against the wall. He's actually hiding._

Sherlock looked around the room, but he didn't see any evidence of the target getting out of the dumbwaiter in this room. He looked at his own hands, oily from the chain pulley system he'd used to reach the second floor. There were no oil stains or shoe stains from where the chair had been pushed out of the way, meaning the boy likely didn't get out of the dumbwaiter here. 

He moved the chair back as best he could and went up one more floor. 

___________________________________________ 

Jimmy hurled his shoe at the curly-haired moppet the moment he saw the tile move its slot and a pale face peer up at him. 

"Oh, shit, what did you do that for?" the stranger hissed. 

Jimmy didn't answer. He hurled his other shoe, but the intruder avoided it. "Stop it!" 

"You said a bad word!" Jimmy's voice broke. 

"Are you crying?" 

Jimmy snarled. "No! Big boys don't cry! Go away!" 

The face peered over the opening in the ceiling again. He pulled himself up onto the other side of the tiles with some difficulty then turned to face Jimmy. "You are too crying. Your eyes are red and your nose is snotty. I know because I'm a genius." 

Jimmy's eyes narrowed. He didn't like this newcomer's confidence. "Says who?" 

"Says my friends." 

White hot rage burned in Jimmy's belly. "You don't have friends." 

"Yes I do!" 

"Then where are they?" 

"They're looking for you!" 

"So then they're grown-ups?" 

The boy's chest puffed out proudly. "Yes." 

Jimmy smirked. Carefully, he fitted the ceiling tile back over the slow, removing all light from the cramped space between the drop-ceiling and the true ceiling. "They aren't your friends." 

"They are too!" 

"Really? Then why aren't they with you?" 

"Because I got away from them." 

"Did you get away or did they let you get away?" 

The stranger hesitated. "No, I got away from them. John got a bit nervous, and I used the opportunity to get away." 

"You're very tall. How could they not notice you getting away?" 

"I'm very sneaky!" He was getting defensive. 

"Or maybe they didn't want you around anymore, so they pretended not to notice." 

"They wouldn't do that!" 

"That's what grown-ups do!" Jimmy roared. 

He could vaguely make out the silhouette of his guest, his shoulder sagging slightly. Jimmy pulled his knees up to his chest. "I'm Jimmy. Jimmy Moriarty. Who are you?" 

"Sherlock," the boy answered, his voice softer, less sure of himself. 

"How did you get up here?" 

"I saw your shoes tucked away in the buffet cabinet near the dumbwaiter. You were trying to hide your tracks, but your hands were oily and you tripped in the hallway. I saw your hand prints on the ground. There was a lot of smoke coming from the northwest end, and smoke rises and always gets tries to find a way out, so I assumed you would be on the furthest end from the smoke, following the opposite of the ventillation system, which brought me to this room. I saw a knocked over book, and assumed you'd used the built-in bookshelf to get up here. I thought you were running though...why did you stay here?" 

Jimmy felt the tears welling in his eyes again. _Just in case Sebastian was looking for me._ He didn't admit it though. "That lady keeps walking the halls, searching the rooms. I wanted to make sure she didn't hear me moving around." 

"She's downstairs now. With my fri--with my brother and John and Mrs. Hudson and Greg." 

___________________________________________ 

Sherlock didn't want to believe Jimmy, but it wouldn't be the first time someone's tried to get rid of him. He thinks back to Mycroft telling their cousins that Sherlock had actually died and they were just seeing his ghost. Allison had screamed and Gary had nearly wet himself. "Just pretend he's not there, and he'll go away," Mycroft had told him. 

He remembered the time he'd gotten separated from his parents in Paris last Christmas. Gary had told him it was because they thought he was annoying. 

And how often had Mycroft locked his door to keep Sherlock out? How often had their parents gone on adventures and left them in the charge of Nana and Grandad? 

The evidence was all there. The proof. No one wanted Sherlock around; why would John and Mrs. Hudson and Greg and grown-up Mycroft be any different? 

Little Sherlock's heart broke. 

"Stop crying, you big baby," Jimmy snapped at him. 

"I'm not crying!" Sherlock snapped back. "You're the one who is all snotty-nosed!" 

Jimmy scoffed. "My nose is runny because I'm cold because you stole my shoes!" 

"I didn't steal them! You threw them!" 

Jimmy couldn't stop himself from giggling. "Sorry. I didn't know who you were." 

"You still don't." 

"I do too. I've decided that you are going to be my new best friend." He heard Jimmy crawling closer to him, the tile below him barely vibrating with his movements. He settled across from him so that their toes were touching. "And since I'm the oldest I'll be the leader." 

"How do you know you're older than me?" Sherlock demanded. 

"Your lisp. You've not had speech classes yet, meaning that you've not been in school. Right? You're five or so?" 

"Oh. Yes. Wow, you're smart!" He thought a moment. "So, why do you get to be leader?" 

"Every friendship needs a leader." 

"I don't think that's how friendship works." 

"Have you ever had a real friend?" 

Sherlock thought a moment longer. "I suppose not." 

"Then trust me. This is how friendship works. I know. I had a brother named James but he died." 

"That's how brothers work; not how friendship works." 

"Sherlock, I'm six. I know a lot more than you do." 

___________________________________________ 

"Oh my God, Mrs. Hudson, shut up!" Mycroft groaned. 

Immediately, John and Greg pushed her behind them. "Hey," Greg said, "that is no way to talk to a lady!" 

"She's just worried about Sherlock! You should be too!" 

Mycroft sighed, rubbing his temples. "I'm worried about what will happen if Moriarty and Sherlock meet up. Aside from the fact that they are both chaos given form, we don't know how the chemicals will interact. Will they get even younger? Will their skin burn? I do not want my brother to die. Or get killed by a maniac child." 

Mrs. Hudson pushed past the men. "Maybe we should split up. I bet we could cover more ground if we did." 

John nodded enthusiastically. Greg glared at Mrs. Hudson. He absolutely did not want to be stuck with Mr. Bossy-Stick-Up-His-Arse-British-Government. "I think that's a great idea," Anthea agreed, eyeing the silver-haired DI. "I think searching with an officer of the law would definitely be beneficial." 

John frowned at Greg, who was too busy thinking of excuses to get away from Mycroft to notice. 

"Best of luck," Mycroft said condescendingly. "Sherlock was always an excellent hider."


End file.
